


Impression

by Spamberguesa



Series: Obsession [8]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Lima Syndrome, Stockholm Syndrome, tauriel's turning into a creeper herself, these two, they are a dangerous combination, they are still a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 18:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4575885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spamberguesa/pseuds/Spamberguesa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil’s madness is catching, and he does not even know it yet. Tauriel does, and doesn’t care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impression

Tauriel had not realized that Thranduil intended to give her a new dress for the Midsummer feast, and put her foot down on it, hard.

“I have a perfectly good formal dress,” she said, exasperated, “and I have no desire to spend half a day poked and prodded by seamstresses, who will then have to be up all night to make the thing. There is no point putting them to so much trouble over something I do not want, and will have little occasion to wear.”

“Very well,” he said, irritated, though he stroked the side of her face anyway. “But someday you will have a new one. Something to match all this hair.” He ran his fingers through her fiery tresses.

“If you really insist,” she said, knowing that, while she might have one this battle, it was a war she would ultimately lose. Thus far he had been wise enough not to shower her with useless gifts – the only material things he had given her were a dressing-gown that actually fit, and a truly beautiful bow. In other words, things she could use and appreciate.

He also let her off attending to the last-minute preparations for the feast, since she would have had no idea what she was doing, and did not care to learn. She had her job, and he had his, and only rarely did they intersect. Thank Eru, he seemed to realize it, too.

So while he was busy, she wandered down to the archery range, eater to test her new bow. It was by far the finest weapon she had ever known, perfectly sized to her, the draw just the right weight.

The range was outside, under the open sunshine, and she shut her eyes a moment to bask in it. Never, ever would she take the light and warmth of it for granted again. It was early enough that dew still lingered on the grass and leaves, glittering like millions of tiny prisms.

It was also early enough that few people were about – only Faelon and Sadronniel had beaten her here. Both were still warming up, stretching sleepy limbs.

They exchanged a glance when they saw her, and it was all she could do not to roll her eyes. How long would it take them to realize that she was not, in fact, mad? That she had never actually forgotten how dangerous Thranduil was? No matter how charming he could be, she had seen him at, if not his worst, at least perilously close to it. She had not forgotten, nor had she particularly forgiven. That did not change the fact that she had grown fond of the better parts of his personality – the Thranduil she had recently come to know. He was not some complete monster, and she was no more a helpless victim.

“Are you going to shoot, or will you merely stare at one another all morning?” she called, and they both gave a guilty start.

Faelon, tall and golden-haired, offered her a rueful smile. “We are still unused to seeing you at liberty,” he said.

“Well, get used to it,” she snorted. “I wish you would all stop looking at me as though I were going to vanish in a puff of smoke if you sneezed in my direction.”

Sadronniel laughed, though it was a trifle forced. “You will have to forgive us, for now,” she said.

“I will – for now. I grow very weary of the stares. And the whispering.” Tauriel had no idea how long it would take for it all to die down, but hopefully it would be sooner rather than later. Though she highly doubted it.

“Where did you get your bow?” Faelon asked, very obviously trying to change the subject.

“It was a gift,” she said, testing the draw. She would not mention from _whom_ , lest the staring set off all over again. Doubtless they would figure it out on their own anyway. “I thought I would test it.”

She drew an arrow and took her stance, resting it on her left forefinger. Drawing the string was an absolute pleasure, and it was so soft where it kissed her cheek. She let out a slow breath before she released, and she grinned when the arrow flew.

The bow practically did the work for her, the arrow striking true at the exact center of the target and right through the back. The damage this could do to an orc…what she had to do now was convince Thranduil to let her back into the Guard, even as an auxiliary. Not that _that_ was likely to happen any time soon. Baby steps, as the Edain might say.

“That is a truly fantastic weapon,” Sadronniel said, approaching, her dark eyes almost covetous.

“I almost feel I need no skill to use it,” Tauriel said. “I wish I had had such a bow when first I began training.”

“I wish I had such a bow _now_ ,” Faelon said, eying it with something close to reverence. “I think it might be finer than the Prince’s.”

“I doubt _that_ ,” Tauriel said, though she looking at it, and remembering Legolas’s, she thought Faelon might be right. “I hope it means I can soon go properly back to work.” Surely Thranduil would not give her such a weapon if he did not intend her to _use_ it.

_He might_ , she thought. _He is still not precisely sane._ She had yet to find an accurate way to gauge his madness on any given day. Especially as he seemed to take great care now not to show it to her. Now that she knew the look in his eyes for what it was, and realized that it had always been there, she knew that trying to guess his mind was an exercise in frustration.

Faelon and Sadronniel exchanged another of the looks Tauriel was growing far too used to seeing, and finally, she snapped.

“Will you _stop_ ,” she said. “All of you. You look at me as though you think I am either mad or enchanted. Do you think I do not realize that Thranduil is still dangerous? That I am oblivious to the threat he could still pose to me, if he chose?”

“If you know this,” Sadronniel said carefully, “why do you stay with him?”

“Because I _want_ to. He has shown me a side of him I think very few have ever known of, let alone have ever witnessed. And he has never, even in the very height of his madness, so much as raised a finger to me. Yes, he _could_ hurt me if he wished, but I could hurt him, too.” Not physically – even in top condition, he was the superior warrior – but the was so very emotionally dependent on her. And a broken mind was far worse than a broken bone.

“He has no one else,” she added, “and neither do I, really.” The Prince was gone, and each decade, more and more of her friends married and had families of their own. Both she and Thranduil, however, had lost their loves – his to Mandos, and hers forever. Thranduil believed that he loved her, but even if he did in truth, it was not the manner in which he loved the Queen. He was not as Finwë, as an Edain, replacing one wife with another after the death of the first.

What did she get from it, aside from peril and charm in equal measure? Companionship, and affection without the expectation of love or carnal intimacy. Her capacity for both was buried within Erebor. No matter how many kisses and caresses Thranduil gave her – and they were nearly constant – even now, there was no desire for anything more. Being with her as he was wasn’t any betrayal to his Queen, or was Tauriel betraying Kili. Or so she told herself.

“We cannot help but worry for you, Tauriel,” Faelon said. “Not only because of the King. Your other loss…is a worry as well.”

“Kili,” she said. “His name was Kili, and yes, still I grieve him. No, I will not Fade. No, Thranduil has not somehow used that against me. He understands such loss all too well.”

At that, both of them looked distinctly guilty. Faelon had not been alive, and Sadronniel had been very young when the Queen died, but her absence was nevertheless keenly felt. “We will try not to worry, Tauriel,” Faelon said, though his tone was dubious. Still, she could ask little more.

“Try hard,” she said firmly. “Meanwhile, let us see if m aim with this bow was a fluke or not.”

\--

The Feast of Midsummer was held not within the halls, but out in the forest itself – the safer areas near the caverns, with plenty of guards to watch for spiders.

It began when the rays of the late afternoon sun still pieced the leaves, and ran until dawn. All who lived near enough came, eating and dancing and drinking (prodigiously) until the sun rose.

Long tables were set out among the tress, laden with food and strewn with garlands of wildflowers, blue and pink and white. Lanterns were strung among the trees, casting all in a golden glow when the sun went down, and the minstrels, who had been practically for this day for months, set up near the clearing meant for dancing.

Normally it was a festive occasion, but this year the pall of the King’s madness hung over the proceedings. It was true that in the last weeks he had seemed much more himself, but he had spent the preceding six months keeping one of his own subjects captive in his rooms, doing Eru knew what to her. Even those who lived far from the halls, and did not know who Tauriel was, had heard the story, and came to the feast half out of curiosity, and half out of fear.

Most were relieved – if bewildered – when the King swept into the trees looking perfectly stable, resplendent in robes of black and silver. That relief did not last, however, when the identity of the young, red-haired elleth on his arm reached their ears: Tauriel. His former prisoner, only recently released.

Her own gown was simple, too simple to have been gifted to her by him, made of forest-green velvet with little in the way of embroidery or other ornamentation. The dagged sleeves meant that those nearest her could see the long, vicious scars that ran the entire length of her forearms.

“She tried to kill herself, you know,” someone whispered. “Twice. It was only after the second attempt that he released her, yet she returns to him each night anyway.”

Looking at him now, seated with Tauriel in the spot usually occupied by the Prince, it was difficult to imagine him in the role of captor. Indeed, he seemed more open and relaxed than many had ever seen him – rather like an ellon in the first flush of new love. It was only when one looked closer, and saw what lurked n his eyes, that it became chilling.

Not that that was easy to do, for they rarely left Tauriel, though hers wandered often. She seemed content, and smiled a great deal, but, though she clearly had some affection for the King, it was not love that lingered in her gaze. Unsettlingly, a dim echo of his possessiveness lay within her eyes, as well as no small amount of resignation.

This was not what the outer-dwellers had feared. It was far more disturbing.

Some lord or other walked by, and when the King leaned over to whisper something in Tauriel’s ear, she burst out laughing. Yes, she was content, at least, and did not appear to have been coerced at all. There was _that_ to be grateful for, if nothing else. What none seemed to be able to settle on which was more mad: the King, for imprisoning Tauriel, or Tauriel, for staying once she was released.

\--

Tauriel was not at all used to the vintage of Dorwinion served at Midsummer, and it was not long at all before she was completely tipsy, and quite at one with the world. She still managed to comport herself well enough, however, until Lord Falchon passed, and Thranduil leaned over to whisper, “Look at his hair” in her ear.

Look she did, and burst out laughing. It was scarcely visible in the light of the sunset, but his roots were indeed as dark as Huoriel’s, quite at odds with the rest of his silver-blond tresses. Tauriel had always thought his hair so like Thranduil’s that they could be relatives; knowing that it was artificial just made it too amusing for words. Especially as she always _had_ thought Falchon a little too aware of his own beauty.

“How can he think no one notices?” she asked behind her hand, still giggling.

“I have wondered that for the last three hundred years,” Thranduil said. He was smiling at her in the way that made her heart ache – open, unguarded, unreservedly happy, and, with the paradoxical clarity of alcohol, she knew that she never wanted to release him, either. He all too often that he reminded her that she was his, whether in word or deed, but he was just as much hers.

And no one would take him from her. Ever.

This side of him, so amusing and so close to carefree, belonged to her, and her alone. She realized, with an even sharper flash of clarity, that she needed no chain to bind him to her. He had forged his own shackles, no weaker for being intangible.

He would never leave her. So long as there was breath in his body, he would never, ever leave. And should he be foolish enough to try, for whatever reason, she would not let him.

_My Thranduil_ , she thought, taking his hand – as ever, it was unnaturally warm, so much larger than her own. _Mine_.

\--

Celebdor was not happy.

Lady Silwen had dispatched him at first light, ordering him to journey to Lothlórien to tell Lady Galadriel of the current mess in the Woodland Realm. Should he, through luck or chance, find Prince Legolas, he was to, in the Lady’s words, “send that thoughtless brat home at once.”

So Celebdor rode all through the day, hurrying through the forest, eager to put distance between him and the halls, and trying to resign himself to the fact that he could likely never return home. And he was oh so very worried.

What did not seem to have occurred to Lady Selwin, and what had not been his place to bring up, was that the King would be highly resistant to outside interference – especially from Lady Galadriel, of whom everyone knew he was not fond.

Celebdor also doubted that even she could right the King’s madness, as it had been a part of him for so very long. She could probably cure _Tauriel_ , but that would simply create a whole new mess. He didn’t want to know _what_ the King would do, if forcibly parted from her, but he knew it would not be good.

Personally, Celebdor didn’t really see what the problem was now. Obviously it had been wrong when the King actively held Tauriel captive, but she fared as she would now, and by all accounts he was easier to deal with than he had been in centuries. Everyone who actually _knew_ the pair insisted there was nothing actually dishonorable going on, so really, why was it anyone’s business?

But Celebdor’s mistress had set him a task, and he would complete it. He would not, however, hurry along his way

\--

The King and Tauriel opened the dancing, and, if one could ignore the rather possessive way they held each other, they made a truly fine pair.

Perhaps, some of the woodlanders thought, this was not so bad after all. No one was actually being _harmed_ , were they? And those who lived within the halls took pains to assure those who did not that that the pair’s relationship was chaste. And that, really, could be read in their eyes, tucked among the more unsettling things: for all the obsession in the King’s eyes, there was no desire, nor was there any to be found in Tauriel’s. Whatever odd bond they had, it was spiritual, not carnal. Certainly the King touched her far more often than was seemly, but it was always innocent.

No, perhaps this was not such a terrible thing. It could be a great deal worse.

\--

Thranduil wondered now why he had been so afraid to allow Tauriel her liberty. He was immensely enjoying showing her off. Her face was flushed, her green eyes shining, her hair like a river of flame as he whirled her around the dance floor.

That said, after this, he wanted to lock them both away for the next three days.

He was almost unsettled by the strange new light in her eyes, though he did not at all mind the way she gripped him. There was something oddly familiar in it, though after all the wine he had consumed, he had no hope of placing it. It was enough that she smiled – that she seemed, for now, close to happy. Later – probably much later – they would lie together, either to talk to or to sleep, and he would wake with her in his arms. Just now, he could want for nothing more in the world.

When the dance ended, he kissed her brow, and led her back to their tables.

Yes, all was well. And it would remain well, no matter what he had to do to ensure it.

\--

Tauriel woke the next morning feeling absolutely wretched. Her mouth tasted as though something had died in it, and her head felt ready to split open and leak her brain out all over this wonderfully soft pillow.

Behind her, Thranduil shifted. “Sit up,” he said, “and drink this. You will feel much better.”

Sit she did, not daring to open her eyes for fear of what the light might do to her pounding head. Thranduil pressed a cool glass of something that smelled of vanilla against her lips, and she took an experimental sip. It tasted more like cinnamon than vanilla, but after a few more swallows, the pain in her head and ache in her muscles eased.

When she’d finished the glass, she lay down again, head pillowed on his chest. “Remind me to never, ever drink that much again,” she groaned.

His rumbling laugh vibrated beneath her cheek. “I had not wanted to say anything, but you did _me_ proud last night,” he said, still stroking her hair.

“Next time, say something,” she said fervently. “ _Please_.”

“I will try to remember. Provided I am not too intoxicated myself.”

“In that case, you will never remember,” she said, wrapping her arm around him. “I am doomed.”

“Then we must simply stay abed. Eru knows everyone else would be.”

It sounded like a better plan than any other she could come up with. “Have you given any thought to what I said about Bard?” she asked, listening to the comforting beat of his heart. 

“Yes, actually,” Thranduil said, twining his fingers in her hair. “I am contemplating inviting him here, when he has things under control in Dale for the summer. I know his children are curious about us, especially his youngest.”

“We ought to send him some workers. I know we aided them in surviving the winter – Huoriel told me so – but so many of them died between the battle and the dragon that they need all the aid they can get.”

“True. Why are you so thoughtful, Tauriel?”

_Because I am not a fool_. Really, _anyone_ could have thought of that, and probably had. Who knew what the Council had been doing during his madness? Not her, and probably not Thranduil, either. Thank Eru he was paying attention now.

“I’ve thought of something else, too: what in Elbereth’s name are we going to say when Legolas returns? He will…not approve.” Not after he’d apparently spent so long trying to protect her from his father.

Then again, she did not intend to give him the chance to _say_ anything. The situation might have improved, but she still owed him a blow to the face for her six-month imprisonment. He could disapprove all he liked – it was his fault.

Still, she couldn’t regret what had come of it, however dangerous and unhealthy it was. She was finding she no longer cared much about either. Thranduil was as much in her grasp as she was in his, whether he realized it or not. He probably didn’t, yet.

“He can disapprove all he likes,” Thranduil said, drawing her closer. “There is nothing he can do about it. I will not let him.”

“Nor will I.” Six months ago, Tauriel would have run and never looked back. Even a fortnight ago she might have, though she would have grieved all that might have been, but now…now she _had_ something, some _one_ , who seemed to near worship the ground she walked upon. Thranduil believed that he loved her, and believed it wholeheartedly.

She was glad Thranduil had no senses to come to. For if he had, and if he did, he would find her very difficult to dislodge.

Perhaps he would be the one wearing the chain.

**Author's Note:**

> Congrats, Thranduil. Tauriel’s not just broken, she’s as crazy as you are. Well done.
> 
> Why are some of the Elves trying to normalize this? Because it happens _all the time_ in real life. Seriously, ‘it could be worse’ is one of the most dangerous phrases in the English language (unless, like Nanny Ogg, you qualify it with ‘there could be snakes’, because snakes do indeed make everything worse.)


End file.
